


True to the Heart

by funkytoes



Category: The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types, The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Action/Adventure, Humor, Romance, Romantic Comedy, except not really because I'm suddenly way too invested in these characters haha, kind of a joke fic lol
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-12-05
Updated: 2018-12-05
Packaged: 2019-09-12 11:05:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,070
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16871788
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/funkytoes/pseuds/funkytoes
Summary: When Fëanor stays in a small seaside village to rest while on his journeys, the last thing he was expecting to happen was to meet Nerdanel, an elf-maid who would one day capture his heart, and vice versa.





	True to the Heart

Fëanor lifted up his goblet at his host’s speech. His host, the leader of this seaside village, had been thrilled that Fëanor, son of Finwë, had agreed to stay a few days with them. Though he would never admit it, Fëanor had needed a breather from traveling—and more importantly, and the only excuse he gave, was that his trusty steed needed rest and care.

“Sire…” the village leader, whose name was Aleikeu, began to say. “We are honored by your presence.”

Fëanor, only half listening to the elf’s words, lifted his goblet up, and said, “Not as honored as I am that you have given me shelter in your…” he struggled to find the words, “Lovely home,” he finished. He wondered if Aleikeu would catch the sarcasm. Fëanor nodded his head in the direction of an empty seat. “Who sits there?”

“Ah,” Aleikeu’s raised an eyebrow, glancing at the empty seat. “That would be our _other_ guest. She has been here for about seven months—though she rarely joins us for meals nowadays.” He turned his gaze back to Fëanor. “She is a skilled artisan, however—I highly suggest you seek out her work.”

Fëanor nodded, his mind slipping away to something else, and barely paid any mind to the chatter and excitement of the evening.

It wasn’t until much later that he was able to make his escape. He staggered back to the hut on the sand of the beach—he had consumed too much wine—courtesy of the village elf-maids who were serving them. He had enjoyed their attention… their giggles and hopeful glances a clear indication that they knew exactly who he was. Though he did not find any of them tempting, rather, he found them boring—pretty little things with unrealistic hopes and dreams.

He fell into bed, and quickly found sleep--if for nothing else than to sleep off the wine.

The next morning, Fëanor awoke to giggles outside, and sat up. When he saw two heads peek around to look inside his hut, before disappearing with more giggles. He heaved a breath, before standing up and quickly dressing in the clothes set out for him. Not nearly as fine as the garments he wore every day in Tirion, but he supposed they would do while he stayed here in this remote village by the shore.

When he walked out of the hut, he had to keep himself from rolling his eyes as the sound of quiet shrieks and suppressed giggles could be heard. The elf-maids who were waiting for him to exit the hut scattered in an attempt to not be caught.

That morning, he took a walk by the beach, tended to his steed, Yoa, ate breakfast with Aleikeu, and was relentlessly followed by seemingly every elf-maid in the village, which turned out to be an annoying large number.

Even in his hut, he found that curious and hopeful eyes were everywhere—and so when he ran into Aleikeu’s wife, who was carrying a large basket up a hill, he eagerly asked if she needed aide.

“Ah,” she said, bowing before him, “My husband would surely not approve of you doing our work, Lord Fëanor.”

“I assure you,” Fëanor said, glancing out of the corner of his eyes, “I am glad to be of use, and I could use a walk.”

Aleikeu’s wife smiled knowingly. “Don’t mind them, My Lord—they’ve never met or seen such a lord as yourself.” She handed the basket to him. “They won’t follow you up there.” She nodded towards up a grassy hill, where a large sand-stone building stood.

“And what is… up there?” Fëanor asked, following her gaze.

“Our other guest,” Aleikeu’s wife answered. She shook her head slowly, sighing. “She rarely comes out of that building—I bring her food every day, otherwise I am certain she would starve without even realizing it.” She patted Fëanor’s arm, “Good luck.”

He frowned, wondering why she would say such a thing, but heaved a breath and hurried up the hill. Once he reached the building, he looked over his shoulder and saw, below, the many elf-maids turning away and returning to their various duties. With a smug smile, Fëanor turned back and entered the building.

* * *

 

What he found inside was completely different than he could have expected. It was dark, typical of indoors on such a bright day. Strange creatures—that he slowly realized were statues, stood ominously around him, as he and his basket ventured deeper into the building. Most of them were creatures he had never seen before—many looking like nightmarish visitors in a restless dream.

When he suddenly saw his father standing before him, looking off at the more sunlit side of the building, Fëanor almost dropped his basket in surprise. “Ada?” he asked, tilting his head. “What are you doing here?”

Then, when he received no response, he took a few steps forward. “How did you know I was here?” He began, before frowning in irritation when his father again did not move or indicate he had even heard Fëanor.

Fëanor dropped the basket in his hands unceremoniously onto the floor and walked around so he stood facing his father. “Why are you…” Fëanor blinked in surprise. His father had not moved an inch, and now, when faced with his eldest son and heir, even Finwë’s eyes would not move. Fëanor waved a hand in front of his father’s face, before realizing with a shock that this was not his father.

This…

Was not his father…But…

… A _statue_.

A shiver swept up his spine, as he marveled at the mastery of the structure. He had believed, up until just moments ago, that his father had beens truly standing before him. Every detail was correct, including the painted freckles on Finwë’s face.

Fëanor left the statue of his father, and walked over to where he had left the basket of food. Blinking in surprise, he saw that the basket was gone. His eyes scanned the cluster of statues, as if suspecting one of them to have been the thief.

“You know,” he heard someone say from behind him, “It’s always amusing to see people think they’re real.”

He spun around, ready for an attack.

A she-elf had spoken, and was now shoving a piece of bread into her mouth.

He straightened, narrowing his eyes. “And who are you?” he asked.

The elf-maid blinked, frowning at him, her large spectacles making her eyes look strangely enlarged.

She wasn’t beautiful by most standards, that much was certain. Heavier set than most of the other elf-maids that Fëanor knew, she was rather short, with brown hair which was shorn above her shoulders and stuck out and up erratically at different angles. Her face was completely covered with freckles, and her cheeks had a ruddy glow, and he was fairly certain that she had not bathed in at least a few days, if not more than a week.

She lifted her spectacles up and replaced them with a contraption similar to the one Fëanor used when working with stones and gems. Adjusting the settings, he knew she was looking at him more closely. “Ah!” she exclaimed, pushing the magnifying glass back to the the top of her head, her spectacles falling back down to her nose as if on its own accord. “I recognize you now! You’re… oh… what’s your name…” she snapped her fingers a couple times, narrowing her eyes as she thought. “Aha! Lord Finarfin.”

It was as Fëanor’s turn to blink in surprise. “I _beg_ your pardon?” he asked, tilting his head to stare at her in incredibility.

“You bear an _uncanny_ resemblance to your mother,” she added, adjusting her spectacles. “Thank you for bringing me food.” With that, she abruptly turned and began to walk away.

“How did you—” Fëanor turned to stare and point at the statue of his father, before hurrying after the elf-maid, winding and navigating around the many statues, until he reached the far end of the building, where large windows let in sunlight. The elf-maid was examining something on a table. “Who _are_ you?” he asked, frowning at her. “And I am _not_ Finarfin. I am Fëanor, son of Finwë.”

She didn’t answer, as she was too engrossed in what she was examining. Without warning, she reached up and grabbed Fëanor by his tunic, and drew his face down so it was level with hers. “Look!” she exclaimed happily, and with a few clicks and adjustments of her magnifying contraption so that it covered the distance between herself and his own eyes, Fëanor found himself seeing more clearly what it was she was working on.

“What… is it?” he asked, staring in wonder at what this elf-maid somehow managed to make.

What he saw was the clicking of small metal parts, moving of their own accord in harmony with each other. She stood up, her magnifying contraption slapping Fëanor in the face as she did so, but she gave no apology. Indeed, as Fëanor stood and rubbed his nose in indignation, he noted that she made no sign that she noticed she had just injured a prince of the Noldor.

“That’s for a tiny one,” she said, turning and practically _prancing_ in excitement over to where a large object was covered with an even larger blanket. She turned to give him a wild grin. “Wait till you see… _this.”_

With bravado, she pulled away the blanket, to reveal some kind of statue—a elf-maid—standing on its own, eyes closed. “See!?” the she-elf exclaimed happily. “I call her… The-Thing-That-Can-Move.” She quickly went behind the strange statue, and Fëanor heard the movements of metal, before the elf-maid came over to him. “Look!” she whispered, grabbing Fëanor’s shirt again to pull him down to her eye level. “ _Look!”_

Fëanor was about to protest being handled in such a way, but his complaint died on his lips. “What is…” he began, whispering, his eyes widening, for the statue of the elf-maid began to move. Slowly, it began to dance, her movements choppy like an angry sea, her eyes still closed. She looked like a puppet on strings, but when Fëanor looked upwards, he found no sign of any strings or a puppeteer. He quickly realized that the statue was soon repeating its movements, until it slowly wound to a stop, and froze.

“Ah,” the elf-maid let him go, and he slowly rose to his full height. “Not very complicated movements I’ll admit. But… she’s my first successful one,” the elf-maid added, looking full of pride.

“And… what is she?” Fëanor asked, breathlessly.

But the elf-maid did not pay him any mind. Instead, she was biting in a pastry. At his intent gaze, she offered him the half-eaten pastry. “You hungry?” she asked.

He glanced down at the pastry, before looking up at her with a lidded look. “If you’re going to offer me one I’d rather it not be one you’ve already eaten half of.”

She shrugged, and continued eating her pastry, and made no move to offer him a different one. “So… Finarfin,” she began.

“Fëanor,” Fëanor corrected. “And you are?”

“Oh, we’ve met,” she replied, sitting down on a large pillow on the ground. “Kind of. Years ago.”

“I’m fairly certain I would remember _you,”_ Fëanor muttered. He looked around. Between the uncannily realistic statues of clay, and the strange, wonderful metal puppets that seemed to move of their own accord, Fëanor new he had found a great talent. “You are of the Noldor, are you not?” he asked.

She nodded, leaning over with her face close to the ground, her magnifying contraption in front of her eyes, as she examined something on the floor.

“And your name?” he asked.

She sat up, turning her head to look at him. She held out her hand, and he reached out to shake it. “It’s good to finally meet you, Finarfin.”

“It’s Fëanor—” he began.

“Nerdanel,” she interrupted, smiling up at him. “My name is Nerdanel.”

* * *

 

**To be continued?!?!**

**Okay, so… I completely admit this is completely a joke fic based on the fact that it’s definitely going to be a silly, ridiculous romcom—except in my mind it’s not _really_ a joke fic because I’m rather fond of this version of Fëanor and NERDanel ;)**

**Thanks so much for reading!**

**Let me know if you’d like to read more!**


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